


The Adventures of Sherlock Clowns

by BaronVonBork



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 14:02:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17726603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BaronVonBork/pseuds/BaronVonBork
Summary: Sherlock Holmes as a clown.





	The Adventures of Sherlock Clowns

Sherlock and I had been caravan mates for a little under a year. An unusual pairing; him the premiere clown-detective of his era, and I, an ex-military doctor who had accidentally married the bearded lady. The ringmaster agreed to annul the marriage only if I served a year as the circus physician. Needless to say, I refused to share a berth with my wife when it transpired she was little more than a crudely shaven alpaca. So Clowns and I were placed together; a choice neither of us would have made, but which, eventually, we both found agreeable.  
It was upon the 14th June, as I have good reason to remember, that Sherlock Clowns returned from the centre ring of the circus brimming over with fury. Once again, Pietrov of the High Wire had called in the RAC to repair Sherlock’s car, thereby ruining his second half performance. His ire was matched only by the skill with which he honked his own bulbous red nose to mask each of his many and varied invectives.  
With his bright green afro knocking the light fitting and his size 30 feet flailing around the floor, it was only a matter of time before something got broken. I tried to calm him. While his oversized trousers repeatedly fell down to reveal his spotted bloomers, I made my way to the drinks cabinet. As I offered him a glass of brandy, we were both brought to a silent standstill by a handsome young lady who stood in the doorway knocking delicately on the open door.  
“Which one of you is Sherlock Clowns?” she asked.  
“Which one do you *honk*ing think?” replied Clowns; his painted smile warped as far as possible into a scowl.  
She threw her arms around him and began to weep.  
“Please help me, Mr Clowns! You are the only man alive who can!”  
The flattery began to work on his tempestuous soul and I could see him beginning to relax.  
“There, there, my dear,” he said. “Take a seat and tell us all about it.”  
We all took our seats, each of us producing the usual rasp from the many Whoopee Cushions Clowns had hidden about the caravan.  
“My name is Angela Spratt and I come to you with a most perplexing problem. I come from the village of Hamchestertonham. My father was the local clergyman; a vicar of the old school, all tall and skinny, with buck teeth and spectacles who was shocked at the most trivial of things. When he died last October, my mother, brother and I were left well provisioned and so were not very grief stricken. Indeed, mother saw it as an opportunity to try new things and she began with trapeze acts.”  
At this point, Holmes interrupted. “Ah! Surely she must be Flo Spratt, The Darling of the Air who cause such a sensation over the Christmas period with Boffalot's Circus over in Surreyshire?”  
“The very same, Mr Clowns! She took to the trapeze like the born swinger she was. She was instantly signed by Jack Boffalot and within a month had become world famous for her tosses and tricks. Clearly, you have not heard the sad news; last weekend she fell to her death during one of her performances...”  
“Which performance?”  
“Her last one.”  
“And you suspect foul play?”  
“I do, sir.”  
“On what grounds?”  
“Call it a female whim, Mr Clowns. An intuition. A notion provoked by the merest trifle. On the day in question, while the act was taking place, I saw my brother, Methaniel at the top of the marquee, cutting through the ropes yelling “I'LL KILL YOU LIKE I DID FATHER IN ORDER TO GET ALL THE INHERITANCE. THEN I'LL KILL MY SISTER SO I DON'T HAVE TO SHARE IT.” It is probably nothing, but I would feel so much better if you could investigate and reassure me.”  
“Have no fear, Miss Spratt.” said Clowns, rising, “we will come to Hamchestertonham on the next train and clear up the whole sorry business.”  
He showed Miss Spratt out, spouting her gratitude all the way.  
“Well, I can make nothing of it.” I confessed to Sherlock.  
“I have dire concerns about the whole affair.” he said, tripping over thin air and landing face first in a custard pie I had no prior knowledge of. Then he settled with his pipe, set fire to it, his hair and the caravan, failed to put them out with a bucket of confetti and said nothing more until we were on the express to Surreyshire.

“"The entire affair hangs, like Flo Spratt, from a dangerous thread.” he explained as he opened the train compartment’s window.  
“I see no affair, Clowns, just a common tragedy among those in the church and/or circus.” I replied as the door gave way and he dangled over the oncoming track from it.  
“You see, but you do not observe” he grunted, while running awkwardly along the track beneath him.  
“And you talk a lot of...”  
“Honk!” went his nose as he fell face first back into the carriage just in time to miss the oncoming train.

Angela Spratt met us at Hamchestertonham station and drove us to Boffalot Circus in her own car. It arrived largely intact, save for the missing passenger door, the hole in the roof and the engine which had fallen out, somehow making the noise of a trombone.  
It took Sherlock Clowns no time to find a trail to follow.  
“Look at these peculiar footprints!” he exclaimed. While I did so, he set off to follow them. They were extraordinarily large and went off along the edge of the circus marquee. A mere ten minutes later, he deduced that they were his own and that he had been wasting a substantial amount of time following himself.  
“Are you sure you know what you are doing Mr Clowns?” asked the poor, distraught Angela.  
“No.” he replied and sprayed her in the face with a soda siphon.  
“What are you doing, Clowns?” I asked, as he set fire to the circus tent.  
“Eliminating the competition!” he screamed and we ran all the way back to our own lodgings.

The mystery remained as such. Angela Spratt was burned alive. Her brother chose not to press charges. In fact, he seemed rather pleased with the outcome. The police were satisfied that no believable characters had been either created or harmed so the whole matter was left there. Suffice it to say, I returned to my wife that night and we have been happy ever since.


End file.
